


UP IN SMOKE

by alizarin_nyc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_nyc/pseuds/alizarin_nyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Written for:</b> Make Me a Monday at <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/"><b>sherlockbbc</b></a> for a prompt from <a href="http://ireth-ancalimon.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://ireth-ancalimon.livejournal.com/"><b>ireth_ancalimon</b></a><br/><b>Beta:</b> by <a href="http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/"><b>_doodle</b></a><br/><b>Art by:</b> <a href="http://defenerstate.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://defenerstate.livejournal.com/"><b>defenerstate</b></a> <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/1212165.html?thread=19223557#t19223557">can be found here.</a></p>
    </blockquote>





	UP IN SMOKE

**Author's Note:**

> **Written for:** Make Me a Monday at [](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/profile)[**sherlockbbc**](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/) for a prompt from [](http://ireth-ancalimon.livejournal.com/profile)[**ireth_ancalimon**](http://ireth-ancalimon.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Beta:** by [](http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/profile)[**_doodle**](http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/)  
>  **Art by:** [](http://defenerstate.livejournal.com/profile)[**defenerstate**](http://defenerstate.livejournal.com/) [can be found here.](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/1212165.html?thread=19223557#t19223557)

John comes home from the hospital and there are several things he notices. One, the skull is in his chair. Two, Sherlock is at the window and it’s open. There is a cigarette dangling from his fingers and the flat smells vaguely of cigarette smoke mingled with smog and petrol fumes from the street below. Three, there are disconnected bomb parts spread all over the table and four, the smiley face on the wall has been completely obliterated with deep gouges, most likely by the suspicious-looking fire poker which is now lying on the sofa.

“I see you’ve been busy in my absence,” John says, setting down the duffel bag that Lestrade, of all people, packed for him and delivered to his hospital room. “Wouldn’t want my near-death to have disturbed the status quo.”

It comes out a little more hostile than he intended. He puts the skull back on the shelf firmly. “At least tell me you missed your blogger.”

“A week without being called _spectacularly ignorant_ , yes I missed that,” Sherlock says. He turns from the window and places the cigarette in his mouth, slightly off-center, the pads of his fingers pressing firmly on his lips. He takes a long but delicate inhale.

John shakes his head. He isn’t sure what to address first. Sherlock’s indifference to his critical injuries in a shootout that Sherlock managed to walk away from or that Sherlock is smoking again. Or that he’s smoking in the flat. Or that a little curl of attraction has flared up in John’s chest at the sight.

“A week, Sherlock,” John says, opting for his most pressing emotion: anger. “I was in hospital a week. You never visited me, you never came to tell me how you were, or to update me on the situation. I know you’re callous, but this is taking it too far.”

“You’re angry?” Sherlock asks, as if he really isn’t sure of the answer. “Really, John, I think you know by now that visiting the living in hospital isn’t my thing, and there was nothing to update you on. Moriarty escaped, you were the only casualty.”

“Yes, thank you, I know that. Because Mrs Hudson, Sarah, Lestrade, Molly, even Donovan came to see me.”

“Donovan? Hm,” Sherlock says and puts the cigarette to his lips again. The tip glows red and ash threatens to spill onto the carpet.

“Yes, Donovan. Who I wasn’t all that chuffed to see, actually. And yes, I am angry, Sherlock. Why? Why didn’t you come to see me? After all that?”

“I thought you would prefer it if I were chasing Moriarty rather than bustling around your room with flowers and chocolates.” Sherlock looks generally affronted, as though John should have _known_ this. He exhales sharply and smoke fills the air around them.

John throws his hands up and retreats to the kitchen. When he sees what’s going on in the kitchen, he backpedals quickly. “Sherlock! This stuff looks flammable. And why are the nicotine patches in the bin?”

“Used, they’re used! They’re not doing the trick anymore. I need the real thing.”

John returns to the middle of the flat and watches Sherlock take drag after drag. He does it impatiently, restlessly, and John notices that there are dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks are pale.

“Have you been eating? At all?”

Sherlock frowns and looks as though he’s trying to remember.

“Never mind, I’ll order us some takeaway. Empty the ashtrays would you? And clean off the desk, I’ll be needing it later.”

“John.”

“What is it?” John is annoyed with himself. He’s fallen right back into being Sherlock’s maid, and the tosser didn’t even see fit to visit him. He hasn’t even asked how John is doing.

“I did miss my blogger.”

“Okay then.” John nods. They’re still sort of standing there, staring at each other. It should be awkward but it’s not. It’s just a little... odd. Sherlock presses the cigarette to his lips again and leaves it there. It’s smaller now, he purses his lips to inhale and blows the smoke out to the side. His long arms dangle at his sides and he looks smaller, somehow, as if Moriarty blew away a part of _him_ instead of John.

John moves a step closer. He’s not quite ready to tackle the kitchen yet and he doesn’t feel satisfied with Sherlock - there’s something not quite right about him. Sherlock keeps his eyes on John even as he removes the butt, stubs it out and reaches for the packet. He lights a new one, finally looking away from John and down at the match in his hand. The flame, for a moment, brightens Sherlock’s face, gives it interesting shadows. Something in John’s chest moves again - it’s a little harder to breathe and it’s not just the smoke.

God, he’s missed this man.

“I used to smoke, you know,” John offers. He doesn’t say that he wishes he still could, only the sense memory of it is full of Afghanistan and always will be. Plus, he’s not getting any younger.

“I know,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t ask if it bothers John. He doesn’t offer John one. He steps a little closer, though. “Opened the window,” he adds.

“Yes, thanks for that. Thank you. Any progress?” John nods toward the table, toward the bomb that Sherlock didn’t shoot. It is hard to believe now that those little bits of wire and plastic were attached to him only a week ago. The Semtex is probably at Scotland Yard, thank God for the little things.

“No. There’s nothing here, but there wouldn’t be. We’ll have to wait.” Sherlock suddenly smiles. “There’s something to look forward to.”

“I’m not really looking forward to whatever Moriarty is going to do next.” John automatically reaches for his side, the bandaged area where he took a sniper’s stray bullet at the pool. Sherlock’s eyes fall to the gesture, he jerks his hand up to his mouth and inhales sharply. He breathes the smoke out carefully and as he does so, he reaches for John. He puts his hand over John’s, their two hands covering John’s ribs, the shattered bits of bone already on the mend.

“This should not have happened. I swear to you, John, Moriarty will never hurt you again.” Sherlock has put the cigarette back in his mouth, as if he can’t get enough. As if he’s upset and trying to calm his nerves. Which is silly because Sherlock doesn’t have nerves.

John can’t really respond to Sherlock’s words. He’s not really thinking so much as feeling - Sherlock’s hand lightly over his, protectively covering his latest bullet wound. He’s thinking about the way Sherlock’s mouth goes lax in order to let the cigarette in, then tenses around it. He’s thinking about the way Sherlock inhales sharply, nothing languid about it, as if he’s been sucker-punched. He thinks about Sherlock’s hands, long fingers fidgeting with the cigarette, smoke curling over them, and he wonders what they smell like, what they taste like. Stale, like an ashtray? Or salty and real? He wants to lean in and breathe in what Sherlock is breathing out.

Sherlock leans forward at that moment and puts his lips over John’s. He’s tentative, almost sweet, and after their lips brush together for a beat, Sherlock starts to pull away. John’s not done yet, he hasn’t tasted yet, so he pushes his fingers tentatively through Sherlock’s hair and pulls him back down.

He runs his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip. Ash and smoke, yes, but that taste of nighttime, too. Pubs and clubs before smoking was banned. Snogging someone else’s girlfriend near the loo and getting caught. The last swallow of beer and the smell of the barman’s rag. Standing outside the tents at dusk with your mates, watching the last of that day’s brutal Middle Eastern sun cling to the rim of the horizon.

And now, _Sherlock_. John makes a noise in the back of his throat and before he can stop himself he has both hands buried in Sherlock’s hair, the heels of his hands are pressed against Sherlock’s jaw and his tongue is inside Sherlock’s mouth, rolling against Sherlock’s own. The hand Sherlock had on Johns’ ribs moves up, carefully, until it’s over his heart and the other hand - the one with the cigarette - comes up to cup John’s face. John can feel the heat of it near his eyes. He runs his hand along Sherlock’s arm to his fingers and deftly snags the cigarette. He pulls back from the kiss to take a drag.

Sherlock watches him. John unfurls a smoke ring from between his lips and watches Sherlock’s eyebrows go up. He didn’t see that one coming, did he? The ring floats over Sherlock’s face, disappearing.

“I’ve never mastered that,” Sherlock says.

“It’s all in the tongue,” John says. He presses the butt down until it’s suffocated in the overflowing ashtray. He can feel the kick of nicotine hit him, that familiar buzz starting up under his skin until it reaches his head. Once is enough though, he’s not about to go down that road again when he fought so hard to quit the last time.

When he looks back up, Sherlock is staring at him, hungrily. He puts the pads of his fingers against John’s lips.

“John, I want...”

“My bed... come, come to my bed,” John says, his mouth suddenly dry. This is unexpected. He had planned to have at least a two-day sulk before letting Sherlock off the hook for his absence. He expected that they would be working on a case night and day, perhaps chasing clues about Moriarty, staying up all hours and drinking tea, skipping meals and trading insults. He did not expect to have Sherlock’s hand gripping his own as they ascend the stairs. He did not expect that Sherlock would be almost shy as he lets his dressing gown fall to the floor.

Sherlock pulls off the worn t-shirt he’s wearing and slides his pyjama bottoms off so he’s completely naked. He sits on John’s bed. He looks thinner than before, if that’s possible, or maybe it’s because John has never seen him naked. John puts the palm of his hand on Sherlock’s neck.

“You worry me, Sherlock. You look unwell.”

Sherlock snorts. He crosses his legs, still graceful despite his semi-aroused state. “Me, unwell? Don’t talk to me about that.”

“How did you even manage to take care of yourself before you met me?”

“Believe me, it was much easier. Much, much easier.”

John sinks down onto his bed carefully. He takes off his shirt and checks his bandages. “Too many holes in me,” he remarks as he kicks off his shoes. “Wait, what do you mean, it was easier before you met me?”

Sherlock tilts his head away, looks at the wall. “Before. I just focused on the work.”

“Ah. And now?”

“And now I also focus on other things. Look, are you going to take your trousers off or do I have to tear them off you?”

“Interesting,” John says smiling. He complies with the request and they both lie down on the bed. “We’re a mess, the both of us.”

“You’re a mess,” Sherlock says. “I’m fine.” He leans up on his elbows over John. “You’ll have to let me do all the work and you can imagine how I hate that. You can imagine how I hate all of it.”

“What, you hate this?” John’s eyes go wide. For a minute he thinks that Sherlock really doesn’t like sex, he’s only doing this for John, or for some other experimental reason. But then he sees that’s not what Sherlock is talking about.

“No, John. I hate that you were injured.”

“That’s the normal response, yes. I hate being injured as well. Always have.”

“Funny.” Sherlock runs his hand along John’s side, hovering gently over the bandage.

“There are parts of me that aren’t wounded, you know.”

“I know.” Sherlock leans over him and kisses him. John impatiently pulls Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock immediately breaks the kiss. “Okay? John, does this hurt?”

“ _Sherlock_. Let’s go back to that part where you stand in the flat in your bare feet and chain smoke while I lay dying in hospital.” John grips his arse and thrusts their cocks together to try to get his point across. “I’m fine. Just don’t elbow me in the ribs and for God’s sake, stop worrying.”

Sherlock reaches between them, mercifully silent, and thumbs the tip of John’s cock. He’s leaking and hard and the gentle pressure isn’t enough. But Sherlock swallows his protestations and begins to rock against him, spreading the moisture between them steadily until it starts to feel really quite good. John moans and Sherlock swallows that as well. He is, in fact, inhaling everything - breath, moans, grunts, all the little sounds John didn’t know he was capable of making in front of Sherlock. He’d love for Sherlock to grind him into the mattress, but it seems Sherlock is determined to mind the bullet wound and to drag out their interlude for as long as he can. His fingers are delicate around John, and there is just enough pressure from Sherlock’s cock that John is rolling his hips up to meet it over and over.

As he builds toward orgasm, John thinks that Sherlock is making love to him. It’s not some aggressive adrenalin-fueled romp that he may or may not have secretly thought about once or twice. Sherlock’s mouth trails down to John’s neck and he skims the edge of his teeth along the skin there and John is free to groan aloud, to mutter and curse. Sherlock puts his fingers up to John’s mouth and John sucks them in, tasting the cigarettes that started all this, sucking on them like he will suck Sherlock’s cock, or how he will suck on his own fingers before he pushes them into Sherlock.

He wraps an arm around Sherlock’s neck and squeezes. “Oh God, I’m going to come, Sherlock, I’m...” John says and he wants to wait, to make sure Sherlock is there, too, but it’s okay because Sherlock grips them both in his hand and grinds down harder, hips moving faster, and he’s coming too, has come before John in fact, and John hears his own voice say “God, a little more, a little more, God Sherlock, God, please, I missed you so much.”

After, they lay in a sort of shocked and messy state. John is starving, and he needs to check his bandage and take a shower and make a lot of phone calls.

“We’re out of tea,” Sherlock says.

“God, you know how to ruin a moment,” John laughs.

“I’ve been reliably informed that is the case.”

“Right, well, I’m going to get dressed and go to the shop.” John makes a few careful moves, nothing too jarring, wiping himself down with Sherlock’s t-shirt and then pulling his clothes back on. His brain is having trouble coming back online. “Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“As much as I enjoy the sight of you in my bed, I’m going to politely ask that you get up and put the kettle on.”

“Oh dear. And here I’d been hoping I’d shagged the practicality out of you.” Sherlock rolls over so he can look at John, and if John isn’t mistaken, Sherlock preens a bit, stretching out amidst the sheets, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

“Why didn’t you?” John asks.

“What? Oh, visit you?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock sighs and rolls over, showing no signs of energetic kettle wrangling. He runs his hands through his hair.

“I was thinking. Of course, I’m always thinking, can’t help that. But moreso about the particular side effects of having you someone like you around. The idea that knowing me puts you in harm’s way.”

“Queen and country put me in harm’s way, and I didn’t exactly protest.”

“One would think you quite like it.”

“One _could_ think that.”

“And as a matter of fact, I was angry with you.”

“Angry? With me.”

“Yes. For being you. For making such a damn good target. I was punishing you. At first. Then I realized of course, that I was punishing myself. Because I’m the one that made you a target. I put you in harm’s way. I wasn’t allowed to visit.”

“Well. That’s...” John doesn’t know what to say. He wants to argue with Sherlock, but he knows the way it would go. And that it wouldn’t matter in the end.

“I was going to make you move out. I was attempting to, if you’ll excuse the pun, smoke you out.”

“You were going to drive me from the flat? Sherlock, if I haven’t moved out by now...” John waves his hand around to indicate the entirety of life with Sherlock, “what with the head in the fridge and the kidnapping and the getting shot, then I’m not likely to move out if you _take up smoking_.”

“You haven’t seen what’s in the fridge now.”

John groans. “Well, have it out by the time I get back. Clean up your mess, I’m not going anywhere. And if you really wanted me gone, you definitely shouldn’t have shagged me.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to groan. “That wasn’t part of the plan.” He grins up at John and John finds himself grinning back. He blushes a little and scratches the back of his head. Sherlock winks at him and John’s smile gets even wider.

“Okay, this is getting ridiculous, I’m off out.”

“John?”

“Mm?”

“Nicotine patches while you’re out, if you please.” Sherlock flops back on the bed. “Things are going back to normal.”

*end*  



End file.
